


The Art of Sacrifice

by A_Tired_Writer



Series: Three Houses Fics [7]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: But like it's all good, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda?, Platonic Relationships, Self-Sacrifice, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 08:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20832080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Tired_Writer/pseuds/A_Tired_Writer
Summary: But Byleth didn’t answer him, for she was much too busy wondering—wondering why she’d almost thrown herself in front of that sword to ensure Sylvain’s safety, wondering why she hadn’t been able to feel her legs after Mercedes collapsed onto the ground, wondering why she thought taking an axe to the gut would hurt less than watching any of them get hurt.





	The Art of Sacrifice

Prior to her time at the Officer’s Academy, Byleth had never thought too much about self-sacrifice. What would be the point? If she threw herself in front of every blade that threatened one of her father’s mercenaries, she’d be nothing but compost by now. She knew how to level her value as a fighter against the potential of losing someone else, and decided she was more important. That’s all there was to it. Facts. Probabilities. What would give Jeralt the best overall outcome. Losing his daughter and best fighter in one go would do . . . what for him? Give him grief and a whole lot of anger. Or at least she thought. From what she’d heard, those were the reactions to losing a loved one. Try as she might, she couldn’t quite imagine what sort of hollowness would fill her if she had to dump her father’s body on the side of the road.

That all seemed to come crashing down when she was asked to play professor to the Blue Lions—heavy emphasis on the _“play.”_ She could point them in the right direction, sure, but what was she supposed to do when one of them had a question? The only answer she could think of was “figure it out.” Try it again and again until you get the result you wanted. That was how she’d been taught, and look where she was; she’d become the most feared mercenary the continent over. Surely, some of that had to do with her unpolished style of teaching.

Still, that was not the way of the Officer’s Academy. She had to plan lessons and seminars and days off so that her students wouldn’t collapse on the way to class. Slowly, she had to sacrifice the little things.

Byleth didn’t mind. Whether it was staying late to help Annette understand a formula or wandering over to Ashe to fix his grip on his lance, she found herself seeking out their appreciative smiles. She couldn’t understand why, but she was . . . glad to do it. To give whatever spare time she had to these kids. They looked to her for guidance, and she wouldn’t squander something so special. Whatever minimal inconvenience she had to go through was more than worth it.

That urge, that instinct to give things up for their sake, only grew on the battlefield. Byleth had to think on her feet most of the time, scratching out pre-planned steps in her mind in order to save her students. She knew the image of their blood spilled onto the soil would tarnish her dreams for days to come, but that was he least of her worries.

Oftentimes she was the only one who could make a difference. She was the only one who knew exactly what needed to change and when. She knew where a blade would land before the attackers themselves. There wasn’t always time to tell one of her students why she needed them to take care of a threat that had not yet come into play. The Lions knew better than to question their commander, of course, but she wished to spare them the confusion if she could.

This was not one of those times.

“Sylvain, station yourself in the trees at the top of the hill.”

She knew what it looked like. There was no one there, not a peep to be heard from inside the small forest. Maybe he was insulted; his professor was essentially getting him out of the way, wasn’t she?

All the Byleth could see, however, was an arrow lodged into her sweet Mercedes’ throat—all she could hear was that gurgling as Mercedes went down with a silent prayer to her goddess.

No. No, Byleth would take whatever brief, petty scorn Sylvain would throw her way if it meant taking down that blasted archer she hadn’t been ready for. Now, though, she was. Mercedes would walk off this battlefield with the rest of them, even if it meant—

Well, there was no point in worrying about that.

“On it,” Sylvain said. His trepidation was clear as day, but he listened regardless, making a beeline for the patch of land Byleth had mentioned. She saw movement; this time, the archer wouldn’t cause such a dilemma.

Byleth turned away after that, sparing a moment to ensure Mercedes’ safety. She was still there, alive and well, making quick work of the gash running down Felix’s back. Sickness took hold of Byleth’s stomach, threatening to turn it inside out—but no one was dead. That . . . That was the most important thing. Manuela ran the infirmary for a reason.

Sylvain let out a surprised yawp, knocked off his horse by a myrmidon that hadn’t been there the moment before.

“_Ashe_!” she called, desperation turning the edges of her voice ragged. _Not again, not again, not again—_

“Right!”

Byleth started moving toward Sylvain, drawing her Relic should anything go awry. At least, more than things already were.

Sylvain ducked out from under the sword coming his way, opting to drive his lance into the archer’s stomach. Blood ran down the shaft of his weapon—and just before a sword could pierce his heart, the myrmidon went down with an arrow sunk deep into his skull. Scrambling away, Sylvain ripped his lance out from the corpse in front of him with a squelch.

Byleth loosed a breath when he gave the rest of them a thumbs up.

Silence filled the air of the mountain, weaved in with the stench of blood and sweat, choking anyone who didn’t know how to wade through it. Byleth kept on her path towards the paladin, sheathing her weapon and watching her hands move all on their own.

She almost jumped in surprise when she saw her hands come up to cup Sylvain’s face.

“You’re okay?”

“Uh—Yeah.” He flashed his trademark grin. “What, worried the ladies back at the monastery will get bored without me?”

“No,” she said simply, wondering what the urge to growl in the back of her throat was. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

A flicker sparked behind Sylvain’s eyes. “Professor. We kill on weekends. Getting hurt is kind of part of the whole package, don’t you think?”

But Byleth didn’t answer him, for she was much too busy wondering—wondering why she’d almost thrown herself in front of that sword to ensure Sylvain’s safety, wondering why she hadn’t been able to feel her legs after Mercedes collapsed onto the ground, wondering why she thought taking an axe to the gut would hurt less than watching any of them get hurt.

The whole way back to the monastery, Byleth tried to weigh her own value against theirs—and came up horribly, painfully empty.

Her Lions had been through a lot—and frankly, Byleth was more than ready to pin the blame on someone for their suffering.

More often than not, that person was herself.

She’d gone back for Lady Rhea—who _clearly_ needed less help than Byleth could have ever predicted—and fallen to her death. Or rather, her almost-death. She’d slept at the bottom of a river or a canyon for five years, completely useless. She couldn’t take up her blade in their defence or successfully lead them into battle with the help of divine intervention on her side. There was no turning back the clock without Byleth actually _being there_—

And that thought had been enough to propel her right toward Garreg Mach. The Millennium Festival. Their promise. _Her Lions_. Her legs had burned as her feet pounded against the rough terrain of the decimated village around her, but there was only one thought burning in the forefront of her mind: make sure all eight of her students had made it this far into the war. Anything other than that had been secondary, because she was there now, and she would do whatever it took to ensure they saw the end of this hell storm.

When she’d first seen Dimitri, guilt rose up in her throat like a beast, tearing through her chest and leaving white-hot agony in its wake. The more time she spent around him, however, the closer she got to a very important realization; there was nothing she could have done to prevent this. Whatever darkness had clung to the weaker parts of Dimitri’s heart was not something that could have been removed or burned away. Watching it all unfurl had been painful, and Byleth wished she could swat away whatever voices or faces Dimitri was victim to, but it’d been inevitable. He’d been left on his own for too long, even before Byleth had entered the picture. Every bit of the prince’s effort had gone into maintaining that porcelain-perfect appearance instead of other, more important things.

He was coming back to himself, though. Or maybe, Byleth supposed, he was becoming the man she and the rest of his friends knew he could be. He wielded Areadbhar with a defter hand, more focused and intent on a smarter victory than satisfying the non-existent wishes of the dead. He wielded the weapon like a man who knew what sort of responsibilities rested on his shoulders.

Everyone else was a little worse for wear. Inevitable, what with the half-decade of war choking whatever life they had out of them. Sylvain’s smile cracked around the edges. Mercedes’ prayers for the fallen became shorter and quieter. Ashe didn’t let go of his bow or lance until they were an hour away from the battlefield. Byleth felt guilty—and was infuriated with that guilt. What could she possibly have done? War yielded for no one. It chewed you up and spat you back out with three lifetimes’ worth of injuries and nightmares. The only thing you could do to walk away with some semblance of your old life intact was accept what you’d done—own up to the blood on your hands. Acknowledge what you’d done in favour of your own survival—hope that you didn’t have to do it all over again.

Byleth knew a lot of the Kingdom’s success relied on her ability to lead them. Dimitri had crawled out from the grave of his own making, rejuvenated his people and gave them the drive they needed to fight back—even then, it was no secret that Byleth’s planning and directions were what made their victories. She was important. She couldn’t die.

It seemed whatever being lived in the sky had other plans.

Their forces were stretched thin. Each of her students, now generals, were planted throughout the battlefield, doing their best to rid of the numerous enemy forces before them. Byleth was stuck on a hill, far away from any sort of reinforcement, fighting off two soldiers within an inch of her life. Her vision was swirled around the edges, but years of fighting had driven survival instincts into her bones—deeper, even, into something more basic and primal. She needed only worry about filling her lungs with air and keeping herself upright.

Sothis had long since left Byleth’s consciousness—or become a part of it. Byleth was still fuzzy on the specifics. Regardless, there was a power that had awoken in her heart, and Byleth would use it. She stepped back, as elegantly as she could given her current situation, and took a breath. She lowered her middle, and dived forward.

Warmth crept through her veins, forth from her unbeating heart and into her hands curled around her Relic. It boiled over, easily sparking an inferno that would not be stifled for anyone. The blood that landed on her cheeks almost felt refreshing against the inevitable power curling through her skin, but there wasn’t the time to think about how that worked. With one soldier down, Byleth made quick work of her second opponent. Clenching her teeth, she ignored the sight of the woman’s organs strewn about the floor as if they were nothing but leaves fallen from the trees.

Before she could blink, all the warmth that had crawled through Byleth’s body in a last-ditch effort to keep herself alive seeped into the ground.

“_Annette!”_

It was useless. Her screams were lost in the clashing of metal and the screams of the fallen. Byleth was near-tumbling down the hill before she could stop herself.

Her powers were running on empty. Turning back the clock wasn’t an option. She had to do this.

Byleth heard the lance sink into her skin before she felt it—her skin giving under the sharpness of the lance, the metal making itself at home in her flesh. She could probably chalk it up to an unhealthy amount of adrenaline making its rounds in her veins.

“Oh, Goddess, _Professor_!”

Byleth looked down to see the lance still there. A gust of wind brushed by her ear, nearly deafening as it whipped her hair around. She couldn’t hear much else over the blood pounding like hooves in her ears. Except—footsteps?

“You _fool_.”

“Felix . . .” Byleth groaned. Her legs gave out and she choked as she felt the lance shift. “Are you okay?”

She didn’t get a response. Felix busied himself with cutting away the rest of the lace’s shaft.

“Stupid, unac_ceptable_—What were you _thinking_?”

What _had_ she been thinking? Byleth craned her neck back, bones quaking and blood screaming, to look at Annette, who was spluttering over the few healing spells she knew. She looked heartbroken, with tears streaming down her face and eyes the colour of a lake in the morning.

“Professor,” she begged, wet and sorrowful, “please don’t die. We need you.”

“You’re safe,” Byleth whispered stupidly.

Pain curled forth from where the lance remained in her gut. Looking at Annette, who only had a small cut on her forehead, Byleth could only think one thing: _I’m glad Annette isn’t feeling this pain._

And it was the last thought she had for a while.

Byleth’s head may as well have been a broken ornament lit on fire. She didn’t know headaches could even _be_ this bad. The rest of her body, blessedly, was just this side of numb. How convenient. She’d thank Mercedes for that later, when her tongue didn’t feel like a useless weight in her mouth.

Her eyes ached like never before when she pried them open. Shit, she was tired.

“Professor!”

Oh, so her head _could_ hurt more. Good to know. Byleth groaned miserably, but—that voice.

“’nette?”

_Pain pain pain—_But Annette was hugging her, wasn’t she? Byleth had the good sense to hug her back. Or, at least, throw her arm around the smaller woman’s waist in what was supposed to be a hug.

“Thank the Goddess you’re safe.”

Byleth—she finally felt like she could breathe. Annette had made it out okay. A quick look around the room told Byleth the only patient in the infirmary was herself.

“Is everyone . . . ?” Goodness, even talking took more effort than she had to give.

Annette smiled at her. “Everyone’s okay. His Highness took out a whole battalion by himself when he found out you were in trouble.”

If she had the energy, Byleth would blush. She didn’t deserve that kind of attention or stress—not in her favour.

“Dedue and Ashe went to the greenhouse to make a bouquet for you. Felix is—well, he’s wearing a track in the floor right along with His Highness. He’ll probably cuss you out.”

Byleth grinned at the ceiling, lopsided and tired beyond tired. Her Lions were okay. Annette had lived to make sweets for her friends another day.

The knock that sounded from the door felt as if it were pounding against the sides of Byleth’s skull.

“Annie,” a soft voice called, “is she awake?”

“Yeah, Mercie, come in!”

Mercedes was a pleasant sight amidst the tidal wave of pain threatening to swallow Byleth whole.

“Hello, Professor. You gave us quite a scare there.”

Felix moved into the corner of the room, glaring daggers at his professor—and he spent several long moments taking note of Byleth’s injuries. There was the briefest brush of red around his eyes. “She pulled a stupid stunt is what she did.”

Dimitri rushed to her side in a flourish of cobalt capes and pitch armour. He seemed to think better of touching her—probably in fear of hurting her all over again—and settled for looking at her with barely restrained adoration and concern. “You seem to have healed quite nicely, Professor.”

“I imagine I have Mercedes to thank for that.”

Mercedes smiled at that, shooing people away so she could get a better look. “Does anything hurt?”

Byleth slowly flexed her muscles. Her stomach didn’t hurt more than the rest of her body. “Just sore,” she decided.

“Good. That’s to be expected.”

Ashe and Dedue marched in a second later, the latter holding a cluster of flowers close to his chest.

“You’re awake,” Dedue said. He stared down at the flowers in his hands. “I was hoping you’d be asleep.”

Byleth reached out a hand. “Gimme.”

Sylvain cocked a brow at her brashness, but no one said anything. Good. Byleth was in no mood for judgement. When the flowers were in front of her, placed gently in her grip, she buried her nose in them.

“Thank you both; they’re lovely.”

Ashe blushed bright and crimson. Dedue’s embarrassment wasn’t as prominent, though no less genuine. “Of course,” Ashe said. “We wanted to pay you back for all the flowers you’ve given us.”

Byleth shrugged. She’d always loved seeing the smiles on their faces when she approached them, freshly picked flowers in hand. Even then, she’d strived to see them happy—to know that she’d done it.

And they were all here now. Eight students she’d taken the time to teach and guide, now soldiers in a war she hoped to win, some of noble descent and others not. A king and a duke were under her watch, as well as knights and a margrave—yet here they all were, worried for a professor who probably wouldn’t matter to them otherwise.

Maybe that was where fate came into play. Byleth was not oblivious; she knew that she wouldn’t be half the person she was were it not for the time she’d shared with the Lions. They’d sparked something in her, and now Byleth used that fire to protect them in return. She would use that fire if it meant her last breath—and it almost had.

The others chattered amongst themselves, Sylvain making some throwaway comment about death only making the professor more beautiful and Ingrid half-heartedly smacking his arm for his efforts. Felix moved away from his spot, planting himself at the foot of Byleth’s bed and huffing at anyone who smiled at him for it. Mercedes filled Byleth’s ear with idle chatter as she cast another round of healing spells.

“Mercedes, please, I’ll heal on my own. Save your strength.”

“I’m glad to do this, Professor. Even if I have to sleep right after this, I’ll rest well knowing all of my strength was spent saving you.”

Byleth tried to hide her shock. That was it, the reason Byleth had stopped surprising herself with her need to protect her Lions; they would do the same for her. It wasn’t _scary_ anymore because it was the same no matter the angle.

Byleth didn’t bother weighing her value against theirs anymore, because she knew the answer: each of them was invaluable, impossibly precious, and Byleth would do whatever it took to make sure they all made it through this war.


End file.
